Look At Him
by WildMeiLing
Summary: Would it fall to a Queen to conduct an interview? Let's just assume it might, at least if it were for a very important position because, as it happens, this is a story about the Queen conducting an interview to fill a very important position.


_A departure from my usual headcannon, but it amused me, and I hope it does the same for you._

 _And I haven't forgotten that I owe a chapter on my Mia story. It's coming along, I promise. (No, really.)_

 _In the meantime, thanks so much for stopping by to read this!_

* * *

She couldn't stand this wretched humidity.

It was hot and they were due for a good thunderstorm, so to be fair, the sticky weather made perfect sense. However, that didn't lessen the Queen's disapproval of it.

The black skirt suit weighed on her as she made her way down the hall to her office. The jacket held the damp heat in close to her skin; and the color, which she had been wearing for several months now, seeped into her soul.

Damn Rupert for leaving her.

Grief for her best friend and the father of her children dulled her staccato steps until, for a moment, she felt she couldn't go on. One hand perched on her hip and the other shoved itself into her hair while she drew in a tremulous breath. Then it passed, or was at least suppressed; and in the blink of an eye she was moving again. The hand from her hip trailed the air elegantly alongside her, while the other fluffed and teased her locks into place.

She sailed past her assistant's desk, desperate to retreat into the sanctuary of her office. Charlotte, efficiency personified, was on her feet as soon as her royal boss was in view.

"Your Majesty -"

Clarisse waved her to silence. "Yes, Charlotte, I know. One more interview this afternoon. That's why I'm back early. I want a few minutes to collect myself before he arrives."

"But Your Majesty -"

"He already has David's seal of approval as his replacement, which is saying something. What's his name again?"

"Romero, Your Majesty. Joe Romero. But he's -"

"Joe Romero?" Clarisse frowned, taking the personnel file from her assistant as she spoke. "That rhymes, in an awkward sort of way."

"It does, and -"

"And 'Joe' is such a blunt shortening of a terribly lovely name. I suppose it could be worse." She flipped open the docket and began scanning as she continued her lament. "At least, he doesn't go by 'Joey.' It's bad enough these so-called security experts are so young they could be my children, without my having to call them something with a 'y' at the end of their names."

"This one is a little older than the others."

"Is he? Ah yes, I see. A year younger than I - er, I mean, old enough to have some real-world experience. That _is_ comforting." She turned a page and saw a very serious photograph of a rather ominous man in a black leather jacket looking back at her.

Ominous. But an attractive ominous.

"Yes, Ma'am. And he's -"

"Hold my calls, Charlotte. I don't want to be disturbed until he's here."

"But he's -"

Clarisse paused in the doorway to her office. "And we're not hiring him unless I can call him 'Joseph' or something else other than 'Joe'." She cocked her head thoughtfully. "Joe Ro-mer-o. Surprising lack of rhythm for a rhyming name."

She kicked the door mostly shut with her heel - an action she made as graceful as a dance step - cutting off Charlotte's last bid to speak up.

She closed her eyes and leaned her weight against the door, pushing it firmly into place and submitting to the heaviness drowning her spirit. "Oh, help."

She was doing everything she could to make this transition as easy as possible for Philippe because she understood her younger son was having to embrace a situation he hadn't completely designed by his own free will. But sometimes we have to do things we don't want to do. Sometimes we have to marry people we don't want to marry, divorce families we don't want to divorce, rule countries we don't want to rule.

She knew in her heart Philippe would make a fine, if reluctant, king. She just wished he would do it already.

She heaved a labored sigh, then straightened up. Switching the folder from one hand to the other, she shrugged out of her jacket and tossed it onto the chair that would soon be occupied by a man who wanted to be her new Head of Security. A stranger who would be applying for a position that would certainly require a great deal of his time and possibly his very life. She hated this. How could she hire the man, knowing she might be dooming him to a violent death? And as much as she appreciated having someone who had left his twenties and thirties - okay, and forties - behind, she was concerned about whether he had the necessary mental edge and physical stamina to keep pace with the demands of this job.

 _Joe Romero_. Not so bad really. The name, fortified by a handsome picture, lolled around in her mind like a bit of melody stuck in her head.

By now she had walked around to her side of the desk and was using the file folder as a fan. She sensed a darkening of the window and looked up expectantly for a glimpse of a rain cloud rumbling past. Instead she was surprised to see a person there.

Quite surprised.

"Oh God!" she cried, clutching the file to her heart and having no idea that she'd caused Charlotte to wince at her desk on the other side of the door.

"Your Majesty, I am sorry. I..." The man faltered before giving her a lopsided smile. "I might as well confess. I have no idea what etiquette requires when the need to make one's presence known to a Queen arises."

"Yes, well..." Suddenly, it wasn't just the seasonable warmth that wreaked havoc on her composure. It turned out that his picture, attractive as it was, didn't do him justice. Still, she recovered nicely, and her voice was light and lilting when she found it again. "Why don't we just start with introductions. You must be Mr. Romero."

He bowed. "I am, Your Majesty."

"Please, do have a seat." She settled herself into her chair. "May I call you Joe?"

Wait. What did she just say?

"Everyone else does. But of course, Her Majesty may call me what she wishes." There was no way he hadn't heard her earlier speech, yet his expression was absolutely calm and fairly reeked of sincerity.

If she were prone to blushing, she would do it now. However, she resisted. The last thing she needed was another heat source.

"Thank you."

He leaned back and came into contact with her jacket. He picked it up delicately, as though it were something priceless and fragile, and carried it around to offer it to her with another bow. Seeing her jacket held out in his hands made her hyper aware of her bare arms. She had worn strappy ball gowns and sophisticated swimsuits that were so much more revealing than the dainty silk shell, but somehow she felt utterly exposed before him.

Utterly exposed. But in a rather enjoyable way.

She stood and allowed him to help her back into the blasted jacket. He kept a respectable distance, but their movements generated a whiff of the warm leather that was clearly his signature look.

"Thank you," she said again.

They each reclaimed their respective seats and studied one another with an honest curiosity and a respectful openness. There was a dichotomy that existed in his demeanor, and she found it fascinating. She instantly trusted him, even as she perceived in him a formidable potential. And despite her flustered moment, she was comfortable with him. She wondered what he saw in her. She wondered what made him decide this was where he wanted to be.

"Lord, but you look hot."

She wondered why all the wrong things kept popping out of her mouth.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Excuse me?" he replied mildly.

"All that leather." Why did that not sound better? "And do you usually wear black?"

"The black leather makes me look scary, don't you think?"

"Scary. Yes, that's the word I wanted. Lord, but you look scary."

His eyes twinkled, undermining his dangerous air. "Often, I add very dark sunglasses." He drew a pair from his jacket pocket and slipped them on. "What do you think?"

"From scary to terrifying."

He pushed them up onto his head. "Good. That's what I was going for."

She stifled a smile and looked down at the folder. "Your resume is impressive."

He nodded in humble acknowledgement of the compliment in her words and tone.

"David must think highly of you, or you wouldn't have made it past him to me."

"I have crossed paths with him before. Professionally. I have great respect for him."

"As do I. And does my husband." Her sorrow resurfaced unexpectedly, causing her voice to break on the end of the sentence. She cleared her throat. "My late husband. King Rupert," she added, feeling the need to state the obvious.

He knew she was struggling to not lose it. He kept his response simple, somehow proving she was safe when he was near. "May he rest in peace. I am very sorry."

Because he knew, he wouldn't think it rude when she cut her eyes back to the file without a word.

They continued on, their conversational interview smoothing out as it took serious and light turns, for the better part of an hour. At last, she rose to her feet, and he stood quickly to join her.

"Thank you for being here today, Mr. Romero."

"Thank you for your very valuable time, Your Majesty."

"I will consult with David, and we will be in touch." She pressed a button on her phone, and almost instantly the door opened. "Charlotte, will you please call for someone to help Mr. Romero find his way out?"

"I already have."

One of the younger, more somber security staff members appeared behind Charlotte. Oh, what was his name? He hardly said a word, and always with those sunglasses, even indoors. They were his trademark. That's right: Shades.

"Thank you...Shades." No, that felt wrong. She made a mental note to ask Charlotte about the young man's proper name.

She walked around her desk and offered her hand to Joe Romero. He took it and kissed it. She was thankful to have restored the semblance of queenly serenity, which acted now as a buffer for the current of electricity that crackled in her fingertips, shot up her arm, and gave her heart a pleasant jolt.

Scary, comforting, edgy, gallant - and other than the part where he had scared the living daylights out of her, he had clearly studied his royal etiquette.

Joe Romero started to follow the other staff members out the door. When Shades had rounded out of sight, Joe turned back toward the Queen and made a point of lowering his sunglasses into place and setting his lips in a stern line.

She chuckled softly. "You'll fit in very nicely, Mr. Romero."

"Please. Call me Joseph. No one else does."

He grinned, and she was already well enough acquainted with him to know that the corners of his blue eyes crinkled behind his dark lenses.

 _Call me Clarisse,_ she wanted to say _. No one else does. Not since Rupert..._

But she only watched him as he left.

Clarisse leaned back against her desk and stared after them. She didn't register Charlotte's reappearance.

"Your Majesty?"

Her eyes readjusted to absorb the sights of the present moment. "You were trying to tell me he was already here."

She smiled. "I was."

"Don't worry, I figured it out on my own." She reached behind her for the file folder and asked the same question she had asked after the other four interviews to try and sound as though her mind weren't already made up. "Tell me, Charlotte. What did you think of him?"

"Well, I don't need to tell you he's qualified. You can see that for yourself. At the risk of sounding...flakey -"

"Flakey? You?"

"Yes, well... I can't tell you why, but I get a certain vibe from him. I think he may be the one."

"Hmm, I felt that, too." She began absently fanning herself with the file again.

"I understand from some of the security staff that he's been in the business for a while, and that he has quite an excellent reputation."

"But what do the maids say?"

Charlotte blinked. "The maids?"

"The maids know everything."

This information was apparently not new to Charlotte, but the fact that the Queen also possessed it was. "They confirm what I heard from the security staff. And..." Charlotte trailed off.

"What else?"

"Nothing else. No, I think that's it."

"Charlotte."

The young woman gave in, tripped up as she was by her inability to tell a lie. "It is rumored he has a rule about not mixing his personal life with his professional one."

Clarisse considered that for a moment, paired with her assistant's hesitation to share. Then she thought she understood. "I see. And that is a mark _against_ him?"

"It is. General consensus is that he's quite eligible." The maids' assessment was on point, as usual. Charlotte continued: "Although I suspect they would still like him to fill David's position."

"Oh?" Clarisse prompted.

"I saw a copy of his file photo pinned up on the board in the staff lunch room. Apparently, they just love to look at him."

"Me, too."

"Sorry?"

"I think so, too. That they will be happy to have him around regardless of whether he is out of bounds." Charlotte had the decency to pretend she believed her employer had meant that all along; while Clarisse realized it was reassuring to know her staff could look, but wouldn't be able to touch. "So what do we have?"

Charlotte ticked off the selling points on her fingers. "Well-qualified, reputable."

"The vibes."

Charlotte gave a little self-deprecating laugh. "Yes, the vibes. Maid-certified. Anything else?"

"Yes, I believe there is one other thing."

Charlotte waited.

Clarisse walked passed her, handing off the folder. "Will you see this is returned to David?"

"Yes, Ma'am. Um..."

Clarisse stopped. Now it was her turn to wait.

"The other reason?" she ventured.

The Queen seemed to not hear her assistant. "Is it just me, or is it rather warm in here?"

"I don't think it's just you, Your Majesty," Charlotte said carefully.

"Perhaps I'll take a short stroll to check on the roses."

"You may want to wait. There's a misty sort of rain happening outside."

Misty rain. What they needed was a raging downpour. It would likely be steamy and more humid after. Summer was teasing them mercilessly with its unfulfilled promises of relief. But it was better than being in here where the walls were closing in on her. She wanted to clear her head of everything, even the name caught in a musical loop in her brain.

"I'll take an umbrella." She noted her assistant's concerned expression. "I won't melt, Charlotte."

"Of course not. And I thought you might want a little fresh air. I have your umbrella next to my desk."

"So perfectly efficient, thank you."

And the Queen left the building for a leisurely walk out into her garden with an unopened umbrella, finally feeling cool and unburdened in the summer shower.

* * *

 _The End_

 _I'm thinking of writing the same scene from Joseph's perspective. Thoughts?_


End file.
